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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654447">green gazes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmwaisner/pseuds/cmwaisner'>cmwaisner</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prose [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, POV First Person, Purple Prose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:20:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,145</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmwaisner/pseuds/cmwaisner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As I look at her, watch the delicate hold of her arm in her brother's, I remember a time when I would've been next to them. I</i> remember.</p><p><i>I remember running, sliding on wet grass as I tried to reach for the linen of his shirt, the silk of her ribbons, as I tried to keep up with their longer strides; as we raced past trees and sailed over roots and fallen branches and forgotten responsibilities and societal rules. I remember reaching</i> up, up, up, <i>desperately seeking this new friendship, and then being pulled over the stone walls, laughing and breathless as I ended up sprawled on the miles and miles of trimmed lawn. I remember slipping my fingers through her hair, remember him watching us, innocent as all children are, like he could somehow slip into the careful intimacy she and I shared. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>I used to always think that their eyes, big and green as they were, perfectly matched the dewy blades of grass under summer skies, of waxen leaves under golden slants of sunlight. Now, his are the same, I think, but hers –– hers are dull, dead, their vibrancy hidden and trapped behind a prison of her own making.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Olivia Blakely/Leisel Arlington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prose [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100753</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>green gazes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ballroom is beautiful, and just as opulent as I remember.</p><p>The pale marble shines, polished and perfect, beneath sparkling chandeliers, couples sliding and spinning out of view as I linger at the edges.</p><p>I see many people I know; or used to, back when I had lived just next to the Arlington home. Back when I used to pull back the vines that crawled and crept up the wrought iron gates; when I used to sneak my fingers through the gaps, peer through the beautiful wisteria to meet green eyes, a secret shared between my eyes and hers. A confession spoken only in blue and green.</p><p>And then, the crowd clears, just for a moment, a perfect path as if made by God's own hand, made by the divine hand of destiny ––</p><p>And my breath stutters and catches in my chest at the sight of them. Of <em>her.</em></p><p>The candlelight highlights the careful curve of emerald velvet over Lionel’s shoulder, gentles the pale, sharp angles of Leisel’s face, dulls the flaming red of their hair, twins in every sense of the word.</p><p>Twins, I know, but not equals. Not in blood or heart or standing. Not in the things that matter, to me or society.</p><p>He is innocent, a lamb, sweet and naive and rich, all things a smart woman would want in a husband. All things I had found so endearing, until I realized what a danger they posed.</p><p>She is fierce, a lion, loud and brave and influential, all things a man would despise in a wife. All things I had admired her for. I had <em>adored</em>.</p><p>Or she had been. It seems tonight the lion has become the sacrificial lamb, and my heart <em>aches</em> for the loss.</p><p>She stands on her brother's arm, her lithe fingers longer and paler than I remember. She doesn't seem to be listening as he speaks to Sir Louis, just gazes listlessly, wistfully to the side, as if imagining someone else. </p><p>I wonder if it is selfish of me to hope that she is dreaming of me. I've dreamt of her so many times, I believe it only fair that she suffers the same agony.</p><p>Lionel talks just as he always has, more with his hands than his mouth, bright and animate as ever, carefree, and I wonder –– I wonder if he <em>knows</em>, knows what he is asking of her, <em>doing</em> to her, tonight ––</p><p>Would I have been on his arm, too? Would I have been shown off, flaunted as a prize to be won, of a gem to be sold, just as she is now, if I had stayed? Would he have listened to me, had I told him? Would he have shielded me, had I asked?</p><p>Had <em>she</em> asked?</p><p>I hope desperately she had, but I know her, even if we are a thousand years and miles and memories apart. She is proud. She would not have begged, even if I had lowered myself to my knees, brought myself to the same low to keep her from building this prison around herself.</p><p>Such rich irony, that we shall begin and end on opposite sides of iron bars.</p><p>As I look at her, watch the delicate hold of her arm in her brother's, I remember a time when I would've been next to them. I <em>remember</em>.</p><p>I remember running, sliding on wet grass as I tried to reach for the linen of his shirt, the silk of her ribbons, as I tried to keep up with their longer strides; as we raced past trees and sailed over roots and fallen branches and forgotten responsibilities and societal rules. I remember reaching <em>up, up, up,</em> desperately seeking this new friendship, and then being pulled over the stone walls, laughing and breathless as I ended up sprawled on the miles and miles of trimmed lawn. I remember slipping my fingers through her hair, remember him watching us, innocent as all children are, like he could somehow slip into the careful intimacy she and I shared. </p><p>I used to always think that their eyes, big and green as they were, perfectly matched the dewy blades of grass under summer skies, of waxen leaves under golden slants of sunlight. Now, his are the same, I think, but <em>hers</em> –– hers are dull, dead, their vibrancy hidden and trapped behind a prison of her own making.</p><p>I doubt Lionel is even aware of the difference –– he had never been able to understand his sister. I suppose I should have joined him in that regard, but the years have not dulled my perceptions, have not dulled the knife I am able to cut her open with, her innermost thoughts bare before me as if like pages of a well-worn and well-loved book.</p><p>As if she can sense it, can sense the careful way in which I open her heart to mine, as if we are not the strangers that we are, her gaze meets mine across the ballroom, and I know what she sees.</p><p>She sees early mornings as we drank in the sight of sunlit hills, sees how wet fingers met and tangled in the pouring rain, sees when feet were caked in mud and when we had never been happier, society nothing but a mystery we thought we would never have to solve.</p><p>I see what she sees, and I <em>yearn</em>.</p><p>I yearn for before, before the news came, before I left, our neighboring manor a hulking, empty husk as the gates shut mournfully behind us. Before she came running, too slow even for the carriage, as she raced to follow her heart, the heart I took with me. </p><p>I can still feel it, I think, tucked protectively under mine, guarded only by ribs and skin and careful calculations.</p><p>That last carriage ride had been agony as I remembered. It seems all I do is remember, even now. But the pain has lessened, I suppose. An old scar, rather than an open wound.</p><p>I remember the tears. The stolen kisses by candlelight. The moment I knew I was hers, and she was mine, and how her brother would never know the way I loved her. The way she loved me.</p><p>I wonder, now, if I would perhaps have been on his arm not as a prize to be won, but as a wife, instead; forced to witness as she is given to someone who will forever stand second in her heart to me, the wench who stole it from her.</p><p>As our gazes lock, I know she sees and remembers, too.</p><p>And if her dull eyes spark with life once more, well, I suppose one should be happy upon seeing such an old, <em>dear </em>friend.</p><p>As I stand on the arm of my husband, my engagement ring sparkling on one hand, I wonder if, perhaps, childhood is really so far away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A concept I've been playing with ✨</p></blockquote></div></div>
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